


like cinnamon and ginger

by savorvrymoment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Sam Winchester, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: Dean closes the distance between them on instinct, lays his hand on Sam’s back and rubs between his shoulderblades.  His smell is strong from so close, though not the same heat-scent Dean remembers, and it’s not just a mix of sick and unhappy omega Dean can smell.  No, Sam’s no longer cloyingly sweet, but rather settled into something softer, velvety and musky.No longer lush and fertile, Dean realizes.  And of course, Sam’s thirty-nine years old; on top of that, his brother’s body has been through the wringer over and over and over again.  It’s probably why he hasn’t been cycling for years now, and Dean’s not sure why he’s having another heat again out of nowhere—maybe one last stand before the hormones and pheromones start giving out entirely—but here they are…
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 455





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: there's some biological imperative/breeding kink sort of stuff in here, but there's no mpreg. Just in case that's a make or break for you. :)
> 
> Not S15 compliant, no S15 spoilers.

It’s a familiar scent to Dean: that saccharine scent of an omega close to their heat, of _Sam_ close to his heat. After all these years living in each other’s pockets, knowing that scent is something of an inevitability. In fact, Dean knows all Sam’s different scents, not just the receptive sweet and unreceptive sour of his cycle, but the in-betweens too. Just the day-to-day scents—clean sweat, soap and shampoo, gunpowder and iron rounds. Plus his natural omega scent, not as honey-sweet as most omegas but rather spicy instead, like a strong cider, cinnamon and ginger. Dean’s never been quite sure why he scents different than other omegas, except that maybe he _is_ so different. Big and lanky and muscled, with a tendency to be downright obstinate, no respect for any alpha that isn’t Dean.

But regardless, differences or no, he still goes sweeter around his heat. Like now, sitting in the kitchen with his morning coffee, fresh out of the shower, damp hair curling at the nape of his neck. His cheeks are a bit flushed, but otherwise he doesn’t seem distressed. The entire kitchen smells like _Sam Sweet Sam_ , and Dean’s stomach goes liquid hot.

The requisite _g’morning_ ’s and _how’s it going_ ’s and _what’s happening today_ ’s are passed around. Dean feels like he’s caught up in a fog, while Sam seems all but unaffected. Except…

“I hope I’m not coming down with something,” Sam says, getting up to put his empty coffee cup in the sink. “I feel like I’m running a fever, and I have a headache.”

 _You smell like a whorehouse_ , Dean thinks. What he says is, “Aw, yeah, I hope not either.”

It gets left at that. Sam wanders off to take some Advil, and Dean leans over the kitchen sink just trying to breathe.

~*~

It’s the fourth time Dean’s smelled Sam like this, this strong. There was the first time Sam had cycled, just a few months before he’d turned fourteen. Dean can remember sharing the motel room with him, hearing his whimpering cries from behind the locked bathroom door, the way he’d felt snuggled up against Dean’s side, feverishly hot. John had put the kid on suppressants after that— _for your own safety_ , he’d said—and Dean had been silently, selfishly glad. He’d known then there was something wrong with him; siblings weren’t supposed to react that way to each other’s scents…

Like the way he’d reacted years later when Sam had finally had to stop the suppressants. It had been part of the Trials, part of the Purification Ritual; no suppressants, no hormone therapies. That first heat had come on like a tsunami, and Dean had been so flooded in the scent of _honey sweet home_ that he hadn’t resisted when Sam had come to him. Hadn’t resisted when Sam had crossed the bunker hall, climbed into his bed, and begged for his knot.

Hell, at that moment, Dean would have crawled back into hell had Sam asked him to.

There’d been one more heat after that, but by then the Trials were taking their toll. Sam was sick, his cycle irregular, and he hadn’t wanted to be touched. Not sexually at least. He’d just stayed by Dean’s side, curled up and cramping and feverish, until it passed.

But then the Trials had ended, Sam had almost died, and life had… Their lives had gone on, the world had almost ended, then they'd woken up to a new day once again. Rinse and repeat. Sam’s never been back on the suppressants and for whatever reason, maybe his body has been beaten in one too many times—after all, they say omegas won’t cycle if they can’t carry a child—Sam’s never gone through another heat.

At least he never has, up until now…

Dean finds him later that afternoon in the bathroom. He’s sweating, his t-shirt damp around the collar and under his arms, and he’s that strange mixture of flushed and pale, his cheeks dots of deep color while the rest of his face is ghost white. It’s a color Dean’s only seen on him when he was very sick—or when he was going into heat. 

Dean watches his brother standing at the sink, watches him splash water on his face. Sam sighs, meeting his eyes through the long bathroom mirror. He looks about a minute away from throwing up, or maybe like he just finished throwing up.

“You doing okay?” Dean asks.

Sam sneers at him through the mirror. “Do I _look_ okay?” he snaps.

Dean sighs. “So, no?”

“Ugh,” Sam grunts, splashing his face again.

And yeah, that’s the thing about male omegas—they end up sick to their stomach before the heat really kicks in hard, before they get aroused and the slick starts flowing. Dean’s always heard that female omega heats are easier, less painful, and he finds that very plausible from what little he’s seen of Sam’s. 

He assumes Sam’s figured it out by now, knows what’s going on. Dean’s about to ask what he needs, if he wants Dean out of the bunker for a few days or, Jesus, if he’d rather Dean stay. If he’s checked about bottled water, dry food to snack on; Dean’s almost sure they don’t have any sports drinks, just a lot of alcohol. Dean needs to make a supply run. But then Sam says, “Don’t get too close, I don’t want to get you sick too.”

“For fuckssake,” Dean says, frowning. 

“What?” Sam snarls, lip curled. And what a tone from an omega, especially one going into heat. He should be mellowing out, subdued, submissive, although Sam never has played by the rules. 

“Sammy, you’re not… You’re not sick,” Dean says, and is met by Sam’s glare. “You smell like—.”

Sam interrupts him by whipping back and heaving into the sink. Dean closes the distance between them on instinct, lays his hand on Sam’s back and rubs between his shoulderblades. His smell is strong from so close, though not the same heat-scent Dean remembers, and it’s not just a mix of sick and unhappy omega Dean can smell. No, Sam’s no longer cloyingly sweet, but rather settled into something softer, velvety and musky.

No longer lush and fertile, Dean realizes. And of course, Sam’s thirty-nine years old; on top of that, his brother’s body has been through the wringer over and over and over again. It’s probably why he hasn’t been cycling for years now, and Dean’s not sure why he’s having another heat again out of nowhere—maybe one last stand before the hormones and pheromones start giving out entirely—but here they are…

A mix of emotions floods him: mostly disbelieving happiness because damn, against all odds, Sam’s still alive to be going through this. That’s all Dean’s ever wanted for him, to see Sam end up old and gray. The times he let himself think about it, he’d always imagined it a little differently; Sam sitting out on the front porch of some place in the Midwest, a whole houseful of pups in the front yard. And maybe the pups hadn't come from Sam’s belly—he always seemed to prefer beta women, Jess and Amelia being the prime examples—but that didn’t mean it couldn’t have happened… 

It's still sort of taboo for a male omegas to father children, but Sam had admitted to him once, years ago, that he and Jess had talked about marriage. Had talked about having children one day, and that Jess had told him she’d be proud to carry his pups. It’d made Dean like her even more, and even more upset over what had happened.

But here Sam is, coughing and spitting into one of the bunker’s bathroom sinks. Dean’s drive to protect a vulnerable omega is stronger than ever, but also, that instinctual need to knot and breed is right there like is has been every time in the past. And it shouldn’t be, not just because Sam is blood. An alpha shouldn’t want to breed a family member; God, there is something so innately _wrong_ with him…

But also, an alpha shouldn’t want to breed an infertile omega. Not unless that omega is… and Dean can’t go there, even if he already knows. Has already known for a very long time.

Dean slides his hand up to press against the back of Sam’s neck, massaging gently. Sam presses up into his hand, because of course he fucking does, and Dean sighs, says, “Sammy, you smell like a two-bit hooker.”

Sam barks out a startled laugh, though says, “Dude, you’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Dean says. Then, when Sam doesn’t reply, just stays leaning over the sink, “You know you’re going into heat, right?”

Sam’s silent for a moment, just breathing heavy, before he straightens up to glare at Dean through the mirror. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No,” Dean says, frowning. “I wouldn’t joke about that shit, Sam.”

Sam huffs at him, then shrugs his hand off his shoulder. Dean almost reaches out to just grab him again, but clenches his fist to restrain himself. “Leave me alone,” Sam says.

“Sammy…” Dean tries.

“No,” Sam says, still glaring. “Maybe I haven’t gone through that much, but I still know what it feels like. I’m just sick right now. And tired.”

Dean’s instincts are screaming at him to grab Sam and force him into his nest. Keep him safe, comfortable, let him rest until he’s ready and wants to be bred. But he knows his brother, and Sam doesn’t put up with that alpha posturing bullshit. So he tries, “Sammy…”

“Leave me alone,” Sam snaps, and Dean barely keeps himself from dragging Sam out by the back of the shirt. 

But he grinds his teeth together instead, and says, “Yeah, okay,” before leaving Sam to his own devices.

~*~

He washes his hands good then changes his clothes, hoping to get the smell of omega off of him, before he grabs his wallet and keys and heads into town.

Maybe Sam’s still in denial, but Dean is 100% sure what is going on. They need supplies: sports drinks for the sugar and electrolytes, some foods that’ll be easy on Sam’s crampy stomach, plus omega hygiene products. And Dean’s maybe a little embarrassed going through the checkout with those, but the beta at the register doesn’t even blink, just rings up the pads and wipes and throws them into the bags with everything else.

Dean thinks about a toy after, once he’s already on his way home, but surely Sam already has a fake knot. Dean’s never actually seen one or asked Sam about it, but he must have something to use when he’s spanking it, and Dean has to stop that line of thought before he really gets into it, before his mouth goes dry and his stomach goes hot.

When he gets back home, he finds Sam in bed all wrapped up in blankets, a pillow clutched to his chest, so obviously nesting it strikes at something deep in Dean’s chest. Sam doesn’t nest, just another one of those omega rules he breaks; he sleeps in a hard bed under the sheets on one pillow. Now, it looks like he’s raided the linen cabinet.

Dean goes over to his side, pulls the covers up around him, tucks him in. Sam cracks an eye open, but he seems drowsy, was obviously asleep. He’s cleaner now, must have showered the sweat away, but he still smells amazing. Silky smooth sweet, like Dean could just melt into the bed with him. 

Sam pushes his face further into the pillow, and he closes his eyes again. 

Dean leaves him there to sleep.

~*~

He checks on Sam one last time before bed. He makes him some chicken noodle soup, leaves it on the bedside table along with some crackers and two bottles of water, then threatens, “These better be gone in the morning.”

Sam grunts at him in reply, but regardless, he reaches out for one of the bottles of water. Dean’s happy enough with that.

He showers, brushes his teeth, goes to bed… and isn’t sure what time it is when he jerks awake to Sam climbing into bed next to him. Sam has a hand on Dean’s wrist, keeping him from reaching for the blade under his mattress. Dean huffs, looking up at Sam through the dark, breathing him in. He smells even better than he had earlier—still richer, muskier than normal, but nonetheless making Dean’s cock twitch in his boxers.

“Sammy?” he asks.

“You were right,” Sam says, voice low and rough. “I’m in heat.”

“You think?” Dean says.

Sam grunts at him, then says, “I just didn’t—it’s been years, and I feel weird.”

“You feel weird?” Dean asks, as Sam crawls closer and lies down next to him. He takes a breath through his mouth, trying to calm himself, and says, “I know you didn’t just say that to me.”

Sam sighs, the sound so long and drawn out Dean’s surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. “You know that's _not_ what I meant,” Sam says. “It’s just—not normal. Not like it has been.”

Yeah, Dean’s getting that. Mostly from the fact that Sam’s stringing full sentences together, not just moaning and groaning in pain and arousal. Or just passed flat out cold. 

And Dean’s about to ask if Sam wants him to go, leave the bunker to Sam for the next few days, when Sam says, “Stay with me.”

Dean should say no, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Yeah, of course, Sammy.” Then, “What do you need?”

Sam doesn’t answer him with words, he just crawls on top of him and presses his face against Dean’s throat, against his scent glands. Dean swallows; he can feel Sam’s dick hard against his hip, and his own dick takes the hint really quick.

“Sam,” he says, swallows again. “Sammy, you don’t—you got a toy in your room, right? You need it? You want me go back to…?”

Sam interrupts him. “Don’t have a toy.”

“You don’t have a…?” Dean asks, dumb, but Sam just shakes his head against Dean’s throat. “Don’t you use one to… you know?”

“No, don’t usually want one,” Sam says, grinding against Dean’s hip, and of course he doesn’t usually want one. Because for all intents and purposes, Sam may as well not be an omega. Save for his scent and the three, now four heats he’s gone through, he just doesn’t play by the rules. 

He probably prefers fucking a hole as opposed to getting his hole fucked. And isn’t that a thought—Dean getting himself clean and lubed up and stretched open, then bending over for his baby brother. Considering doing it for anyone else is revolting, but thinking of it with Sam makes him groan, wrapping his arms around Sam’s ribcage and pulling him closer. 

Sam nuzzles against his throat and purrs, fucking _purrs_. Then, unbelievably, “Dean… please.”

Dean’s stomach drops like a stone. “Sam, no, stop. You don’t want this. You’re just—you’re desperate.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” Sam snaps, mood flipping like a coin. He pulls away from Dean’s neck to glare at him, and Dean can feel himself bristling at the attitude. It’s a double-edged sword right now: not only does Dean hear his snot-nosed little brother, but he hears his omega being bad bitch, too.

“Sam…” he warns, to which Sam just sits up astraddle Dean's hips and pulls his shirt off over his head in one smooth motion. Almost forty-years-old and Sam’s still cut like a pin-up, could pass for one of those alphas in Playgirl magazine. Bad fucking bitch, _big_ fucking bitch. 

Dean does the first thing that pops into his head, which is reach out and twist Sam’s nipples—and twist them _hard_. It’s part big brother taunting and part alpha reprimand, and he’s expecting Sam to twist away and snarl at him.

Instead, Sam moans and arches his back, shoving his chest into Dean’s hands, because _of course_ he does. “Kinky bitch,” Dean says, then, “Bad fucking bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Sam says, and Dean’s got a hand around his throat before he even registers what he’s doing.

Sam stares at him in silence, eyes wide and head tipped back, throat bared to Dean’s hand. To Dean himself, submitting. _Fuck_ … “Sammy,” Dean murmurs.

“Don’t tell me I don’t know what I want,” Sam says, though he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to shrug out of Dean’s grip. “I know I’m screwed in the head—just one more thing that got fucked up with me, but… It makes me feel better right now, when I’m like this. And my scent can’t be repulsive to you; you’re hard.”

And yeah, he can’t exactly deny that; Sam’s sitting right on his hard cock. He can feel where Sam’s underwear is wet, soaking into the fabric of his own and leaving him damp. But Sam’s not drenched with it, dripping with it like he was last time. Against all logic, it makes Dean want to push him down into the sheets and lick him open, get him slick and ready before he takes him.

He’s been by Dean’s side for so, so long. Never given up on Dean, not really, always turned around and found his way back those times when they broke apart. Even when Dean was at fault, even when Dean betrayed his trust and railed at him and treated him worse than Dean ever wants to admit. Than anyone should ever treat their family, than any alpha should ever treat an omega.

Not that Sam’s perfect—he’s flawed, cracked and scarred inside and out. He’s made mistakes, made a whole hell of a lot of them, but his heart’s as big as the rest of him. And God, he tries, does he ever try…

An alpha couldn’t ask for a better omega. Sam deserves to be cherished, deserves the world, deserves more than Dean could ever hope to give him.

“Nothing about you could ever be repulsive to me,” Dean tells him, quiet, and lets his hand trail down from Sam’s throat to stroke along his collarbone. Sam shivers, head still tilted back and his throat exposed, but there’s something about the way he’s holding that position, the tension in his shoulders…

He’s keeping himself posed like that on purpose; he’s not relaxed in an instinctual show of submission. It irritates Dean, but not for the reason it probably should.

“Stop that,” Dean says, voice deep and rough. He grabs Sam’s shoulders and rolls him until he’s on his back underneath Dean, says, “It’s me, chill.”

Sam relaxes, shoulders melting into the bed and thighs dropping open, hair fanned out behind him on the pillow, but only for a second. Then he starts squirming and pushing at Dean, face pinched. “Let me up,” he says. “Dean, let me up, I need to—need to roll over.”

And Dean remembers this from last time. He backs off, lets Sam turn over onto his front. Watches Sam leverage onto his knees and prop himself on his forearms, arch his back and duck his head and spread his legs. Watches him fucking _present_ , his ass tilted up and on offer like any sweet little omega wanting to please their alpha…

Or any drunk slut wanting a knot; Dean’s seen the same position on many an omega he’s fucked while out on the road. It’s infinitely different seeing his six-foot-five brother take the same position, not outright begging or egging Dean on, but rather burying his face in the pillow underneath him, breathing wet and unsteady.

Dean settles a hand on his back, tries to be soothing even though all he wants it to yank Sam’s underwear off and bury his face between his cheeks. But he has to make sure his omega is okay… “Sammy?” he asks, gentle, petting Sam’s thigh with his other hand.

“I’m fine,” Sam says, raising his head to peer back over his shoulder. And he repeats what Dean remembers from last time, “Just feels better to be like this. M’not as crampy, and my back doesn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, good,” Dean says, hands finding Sam’s hips of their own accord. He digs his thumbs into his Venus dimples, gets Sam to arch his back even further with a grunt of discomfort, before he grabs Sam’s underwear and pulls them down.

Sam’s hole is pink and wet with slick and already gaping a bit with his heat. Dean’s stomach swoops hot and his cock jerks, a blurt of precome leaking out into his boxer-briefs. He presses his thumb to Sam’s rim, feeling the easy give of his body, and Sam curses, begins trying to kick the rest of the way out of his underwear.

“Easy, easy,” Dean tells him, tossing the boxers off the bed once Sam’s wiggled free. And then finally, _finally_ , he spreads Sam’s asscheeks, dips his head, and licks a stripe from taint to tailbone.

Sam tastes so good—and he _shouldn’t_ , Dean shouldn’t _like_ it—but he’s all salty skin and bittersweet slick, and Dean could lose himself in it. Dean pushes two fingers into him, angling for his slick glands, because even though Sam’s wet, he’s not as wet as he should be, not wet enough to comfortably take a knot.

His glands are all full and swollen from the heat; they just apparently need a little help this time around to really get things flowing. Which is fine, Dean’s happy to provide assistance.

Sam moans in both pleasure and relief as Dean massages him inside, and Dean licks and sucks the slick from around his hole as he starts gushing with it, as it starts dripping down his balls and the insides of his thighs. 

And God, Dean loves him. Dean loves his omega—his big, sweet, bad fucking bitch—loves the way he tastes, loves the way he smells, loves the way he arches on Dean’s fingers, loves the sounds he makes, his moans and groans…

It’s dumb instinct at that point, something Dean should fight but doesn’t—hell, he should be fighting _all_ of this but isn’t, has sunk himself down into his own grave without looking up—but he eases his fingers deeper, pushes against Sam’s prostate and relishes in the moan of pleasure he gets. Then even deeper, shoving in enough that Sam huffs in protest, until he feels that little dip in Sam's inner wall, an opening he can just touch with the tip of his finger.

Sam shouts and kicks at him as soon as he tries to wiggle his finger in there _—“You can’t fucking jam your finger through my cervix, Dean!”_ —but that simple alpha part of Dean is satisfied. This bitch is ready to be bred, maybe not all that fertile anymore but still ready.

And Dean should get out of the bed, fucking _run away_ , because this is his brother and logically, getting him bred and full up with a pup is one of the worst things Dean could do. But Dean’s not thinking logically anymore. 

He pulls his fingers out of Sam, grabs him by the hips, and shuffles closer on his knees. His cockhead bumps against Sam’s ass when he pulls himself out of his underwear, and Sam starts murmuring _yeah yeah yeah_ , a breathless mantra. So Dean steadies Sam with a hand on his lower back, then takes his cock in hand and guides himself inside.

Sam’s hot and wet and so soft, and he pushes back against Dean desperately. His inner walls clench and flutter, and he sighs in something like utter relief, head ducked down between his shoulders, shuddering with feeling. So Dean starts up an easy rhythm, slow and deep thrusts, and rubs steady hands over Sam’s sweaty back, says words he’ll deny in ten minutes if Sam asks— _“Yeah, that’s it, Sammy, such a good bitch, such a sweet bitch, taking me so good, just like that, yeah, Sammy…”_

But he’d said the same shit years ago, last time, and Sam had never called him on it.

Sam’s enthusiastic, vocalizing like any other omega, all sighs and whimpers and purrs. He meets Dean thrust for thrust, the wet _slap slap_ of skin on skin such an erotic soundtrack—at least until Dean’s knot starts to swell and catch on his rim.

“Easy, easy,” Dean tells him, holding on steady as Sam’s hips flinch away. He’d done the same thing last heat, those first couple of times Dean had knotted him. And Dean doesn’t know whether it’s a kneejerk reaction born of discomfort or fear, but it’s pretty much solid proof that he’s not used to taking a knot…

Solid proof that Sam is Dean’s omega, that this body is for Dean’s knot alone.

“Yeah, that’s it, I gotcha,” Dean says, grinding his hips in, staying buried deep. He can come like this, can pop his knot without have to keep thrusting and stretching Sam’s rim, doesn’t have to cause his sweet omega any more distress. “Yeah, you’re such a good bitch, you gonna come for me?”

Sam rolls his forehead back and forth against the pillow, panting and moaning, and so Dean reaches a hand underneath to wrap around his dick. He’s fat and throbbing, big as any alpha, and it only takes a couple strokes before Sam unravels, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm, a whine catching in his throat. 

He pulls Dean after him just like he’s supposed to, just like any omega is supposed to bring along their alpha. Sam clenches hot and tight, his insides quivering and fluttering, milking him so sweet. Dean pops his knot and comes, back bowing until he’s pushing his face to Sam’s back, right between his shoulderblades.

Sam’s knees give out before Dean is done, and Dean has that mindless panic that his mate is trying to get away before he’s finished breeding them. He grabs Sam by the back of the neck, shoves him down, even though Sam is lying underneath him boneless, unmoving.

Then Sam murmurs, “M’sorry.” 

He sounds exhausted, already moments from sleep, and so very sated—and Dean did that, Dean made him sound like that. “Sammy,” he moans, balls still clutched up tight, cock pulsing weakly.

“Yeah,” Sam purrs, though he sounds dazed, like he’s not really there. “Feels good. You feel good.”

And Dean wishes he could grab those words up and shove them back down Sam’s throat. 

Problem is, it was good last time. Amazing last time. Every knotting and tie last time was better than anything else Dean’s done with anyone else, ever. And as Dean turns them slowly to their sides, scoops Sam close so they’re lying comfortably, all he wants to do is set his teeth to the gland underneath Sam’s jaw, _just there_ , and bite down. Make what’s his _his_.

Instead, he noses at Sam’s hair, scents him. Sam is soaked into the room now, the scent of his sweat and slick and semen all over the sheets, but Dean still loves the smell of him here. The soft smell of his hair, herbal shampoo, so calming.

“I’ll get you some water and Gatorade, soon as I can,” Dean tells him.

Sam snores in reply.


	2. Part 2

Dean wakes up surrounded by Sam’s scent—the smell is clinging to his bed, to his skin, to his very being—but when he opens his eyes, he finds himself alone. The other side of the mattress is cold, and Dean turns the half-inch over, inhaling deeply, practically rolling around in the space where Sam has slept.

He catches himself after a few seconds, realizes what he’s doing, and he shoots up out of the bed—grabs a pair of underwear, jeans, a shirt, considers a shower before just getting dressed and wandering out. He stops by the bathroom for a quick piss and some mouthwash before going off in search of Sam.

He finds his brother set up in the kitchen, barstool pulled up to the counter and elbows leaning heavily against the top. Sam looks rough: his hair’s going every which way, and he’s got over a day’s worth of stubble on his pretty face. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and temples and collarbones, darkening the pits of his old, thin t-shirt. He’s flushed, and he’s got dark bags under his eyes.

He’s absolutely gorgeous.

Sam raises his head when Dean rounds the corner into the kitchen, and he blinks a few times, sluggish and hazy, before reaching for the coffee cup in front of him. Dean watches him take a few long slow sips, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing, before he blurts, “Why're you up?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out like it does. He means it as concern because Sam clearly doesn’t feel well. And Dean would have taken care of whatever it was he needed—alpha and omega and sex aside—doesn’t Sam know that? However, the words come out of his mouth like an alpha demanding to know why his omega’s heat-slick hole is out of bed, unavailable to be fucked, and judging by the look on Sam’s face, he hears it.

“Sammy…” Dean tries.

“I wanted coffee,” Sam says.

“I would've gotten you coffee.”

“And I had to pee,” Sam interrupts, and Dean can’t really argue with that one.

Dean nods, going over to get his own cup of coffee. Sam sighs, shifting around beside him, and Dean asks without looking over, “You ok?”

Sam laughs and answers, “Been better.”

Dean swallows, then says, “You had something for breakfast?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just coffee. Not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” Dean tells him. Then, at Sam’s blank stare, “I got yogurt and that granola you like. Healthy shit.”

All he gets is more weighted silence from Sam, so he goes over to the fridge to get out a couple of yogurt cups, grabs the bag of granola from the cabinet. He sets them down by Sam’s elbow and meets Sam’s stony glare. _Goddammit_ …

“Look, Sam, I’m just tryna…”

“I don’t need your alpha bullshit,” Sam cuts in, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay. That’s not alpha-shit, that’s just _me_ ,” Dean says, spreading his arms out in front of him. Sam’s still glaring, and Dean tries to just shake it off. Sam’s not really upset with him, not truly—his brother is just _upset_ , hopped up on hormones, moody and miserable. 

Sam stares him down for a beat before he relents with a sigh, grabbing for one of the yogurt cups. Dean watches as he tears into it, using the folded up lid to scoop the yogurt into his mouth; Dean realizes he’d lacked the forethought of a spoon. 

“I’m just watching out for you, okay?” Dean says, justifying himself, his behavior.

Sam finally graces him a gentle, tired smile. It makes Dean’s belly flip. “Yeah, man, I know,” Sam says, quiet, and Dean nods. 

“Yeah,” Dean echoes. Then, gesturing with his coffee cup, “I’m gonna go take a shower. I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.”

He doesn’t mean it as an open invitation, though when Sam comes to him, he doesn’t turn his brother away.

~*~

Dean doesn’t know how long they’ve been spread out in front of the bathroom sinks. Long enough for the tiles underneath them to have gone hot, while the steam from Dean’s shower has dissipated and dried on the bathroom mirror. Long enough that the hard floor is killing Dean’s back and hips.

When Sam rolls over in front of him and presents again, the kid’s knees crack and pop loud enough to startle them both. Sam starts laughing, and Dean says, “We’re both too old to been fucking on the floor. You know that, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam says. Then, ridiculously, “I haven’t gotten laid in a year. Longer, actually.”

Dean laughs even as his belly swoops, and Sam glares at him from over his shoulder. “No wonder you went into heat,” Dean says. “You were just trying to get some.”

“Shut up,” Sam says, and Dean reaches up out of instinct to squeeze the back of his neck. Sam squirms and demands, “Stick it in me. _God_ , Dean…”

And well, Dean doesn’t necessarily like the tone of voice, but who is he to deny Sam?

Sam pushes back against him when Dean eases inside, meets Dean with his back arched and his legs spread wide. He lets out the sweetest gasp of pleasure into the bathroom tiles, and Dean holds him by the hips, digging his fingers in, leaving marks. And dammit, Sam’s dripping with slick, plus Dean’s own cum is in the mix by now. The wet noise of their movements is obscene, and he feels amazing, feels like everything Dean could ever want.

Sam doesn’t just smell like himself anymore, doesn’t just smell like heat and slick. He smells like Dean now, smells like them both; _like he’s supposed to_ , Dean’s hindbrain insists.

It’d be so easy to lean over him and set his teeth to the soft skin behind Sam’s jaw, mark him up as claimed. Dean closes his eyes and grinds his teeth to keep himself from biting.

He’d had the urge the last time they’d done this—the first time Dean had shared Sam’s heat, the first time he’d slept with Sam, fucked his own damn _brother_ —but it hadn’t been quite like this. There had been a vague ache in his chest, a heaviness in his gut, something telling him he could bite and that it would feel so _good_ , so _right_.

Now? His mind is spinning in circles, looping between _more-more-more_ and _mine-mine-mine_. Sam hasn’t fucked anyone in a year, and _of course he hasn’t_ , whispers that voice in the back of Dean’s head. _He’s mine. Mine-mine-mine!_

But Dean could have been satisfying his needs, _should_ have been satisfying his needs. Sam should have come to him for attention, for affection, for love… but then he always has, hasn’t he? He just doesn’t come to Dean for sex. Not unless his big, beautiful body is screaming for it; not unless his tight, sweet little hole is hungry for a knot. 

Dean can tell when Sam’s about to come; he ramps up to it, beginning to shudder under the force of his pleasure and arching his back just an extra half-inch, forcing Dean’s cock deeper inside. His soft grunts and whimpers grow louder and louder, his breathing harsher and harsher, until his body locks up and he shakes apart. Dean can hear his cum spatter on the tile underneath them, can smell it too, pungent to Dean’s alpha nose; he’d shove his face down in it and lick it off the floor if he weren’t burying his knot in Sam’s ass, locking them together like lovers.

Sam moans and shivers, starts wobbling on his knees as comes down from his orgasm, and Dean’s used to this by now, knows his omega isn’t trying to get away. Sam’s just tired and spacey, sleeps for a bit after he comes while they’re still tied, and that’s okay. He’s happy with his omega sleepy and pliant and sated, able to be rolled to his side and humped into without objection. 

And so Dean does—rolls them to their sides before Sam’s knees give out, then grinds his hips against Sam’s ass, riding the waves of pleasure as he comes himself. Dean lets his hands roam across Sam’s chest, over his flat stomach, down the lines of his Adonis belt, even fondles his softening cock amidst Sam’s quiet whine of protest. And it’s as he’s moving his hands down lower, curling his fingers in that soft space where Sam’s inner thigh meets his pelvis, that Sam says, “Do it. Please.”

Dean stills, confused at first, before he realizes his mouth is pressed to the delicate skin underneath Sam’s jaw. His lips and tongue are moving over the scent gland there, kissing and sucking at it like he’s laving attention on his mate’s claiming mark, a precious and intimate act between a bonded couple. 

Except Sam is his brother, and there is no damn claiming mark on him.

Dean jerks back so fast that he can feel the hard yank on his knot, fast enough that Sam gets pulled back. He shouts in pain, then yells, “Dean! _Fuck_ …”

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean murmurs, and touches between Sam’s legs, where they’re joined. He’s all wet and slippery, and Sam hisses and squirms, clenching around Dean. It makes Dean’s cock give another few pulses, makes Dean groan against Sam’s shoulder, but he still manages to pull his hand back up to look. There’s no blood, just clear thick wetness.

Dean doesn’t even think, just shoves his fingers in his mouth and sucks lewdly, Sam’s taste so rich and _good_. Sam must hear him, though, some sort of messy slurping, because then he’s saying, breathless, “Dean…”

“You taste good,” Dean says, senselessly. He’s almost embarrassed by the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, because they don’t talk about this. Not when they aren’t moving together, not when they aren’t chasing orgasm. But it’s already been said, and he can see Sam’s cum splattered on the tile just by Sam’s stomach…

He reaches over Sam, smears his fingers through the white streaks then sticks his fingers back in his mouth. Sam groans and mumbles, “Dean.”

Dean doesn’t reply, too busy enjoying the taste across his tongue. Salty and bitter, but still with that hint of omega sweetness. 

“Dean, please,” Sam says, and Dean watches his little brother tilt his head and bare his throat. Watches Sam offer himself.

His heart stops. “Sam, no,” he says.

“Why not?” Sam asks. He sounds exhausted, sounds wounded, sounds heartsick.

Dean doesn’t have an answer for him, because he can’t believe Sam would even ask that question. “Because—Sam, no… It’s not too late for you to find someone, a nice alpha—," and those words make him feel sick, “—or a pretty beta girl, that’s what you really like, right?”

Sam shrugs, one shoulder lifting up against the tile, and says, “The thought of another alpha touching me—it turns my stomach.”

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs.

“There’s never gonna be anyone else. There never really was,” Sam says. “Maybe if things had been different, if we had stayed apart, but—."

Dean doesn’t know what to say, and when he stays silent, Sam continues talking.

“Maybe I could've with Jess, if things had things been different,” he murmurs, sounding sleepy. Dean realizes one of his hands has found its way to Sam’s stomach, is rubbing low in soothing circles. 

“We’re not having this discussion,” Dean decides, hoping that Sam’s drifting enough to not argue.

Sam sighs dramatically, before yawning, then says, “I need to pee.”

Dean chuckles and asks, “You couldn’t have decided that—oh, I don’t know—twenty minutes ago?”

Sam huffs at him, then mumbles, “Fuck you.”

Dean pinches his hip for the attitude, then says, “I’m not waddling us to the toilet, so if you can’t hold it for another twenty or thirty then just let it rip. I gotta mop this floor now, anyway…”

Sam doesn’t answer, and his breathing is already going deep and even. Dean sighs, presses his face to the back of Sam’s neck, before reaching down and gently taking hold of Sam’s dick. He aims it away from them just in case—who knows how long Sam’s bladder has been full and he’s been holding it. Dean should have been paying more attention.

Luckily, Sam naps peacefully for the twenty minutes it takes Dean’s knot to deflate, waking drowsy with a whine of protest when Dean pulls out. Dean strokes his bicep soothingly, directing him to go take a leak and clean up a little while Dean gets them some late lunch ready. 

So Dean wipes himself off with a wet rag, then makes them both grilled cheese and tomato soup. Sam wanders out shortly, freshly showered and looking a bit more awake; he eats his entire sandwich and half of his soup before stumbling off to his bed. He doesn’t try bringing up their conversation from before.

When Dean checks on him later, he’s buried down in the covers, asleep and nesting. So Dean leaves a bottle of water on his nightstand, then goes back to his own room.

He tries not to think about that soft, intimate place on Sam’s neck, and how good it had felt and tasted under Dean’s tongue.

~*~

To say that Dean doesn’t see what’s coming would be a lie. To say that he can’t see the forest for the trees would be a lie. To say he’s sure they’ll get out of this unscathed would be a lie.

He knows Sam is his Achilles heel, and he knows that when it comes to Sam, he’ll eventually give in. He’s just still sort of hoping that Sam will fall into that same nonsensical daze from his previous heats, that he’ll forget about claiming bites and mating bonds and _wanting_. That he’ll start whining and begging like any other needy omega, stop making fucking coherent arguments.

Dean’s really good at lying to himself—good enough that he makes it to the last day of Sam’s heat. 

“I never meant for you to end up like this,” Dean says, quiet, because Sam is dozing beside him in his nest. And he’s not even sure exactly what he means by ‘like this’. An omega forced to know aggression and torture and violence? Or an omega left at nearly forty without a mate or pups? Or an omega so fucked in the head that they want their own brother to claim and bond with them…?

Or really, all of the above.

It’s hot in Sam’s nest—or no, his _bed_ —Sam pitches a fit anytime Dean slips up and calls the bed a nest. But it is a nest at the moment, so many blankets piled up that Dean’s sweating. He’s managed to push most of them over onto Sam, leaving his brother cocooned in a big bundle, mess of dark bedhead peeking out from the top. 

Sam squirms a bit when Dean speaks, peering back over his shoulder. He blinks sleepy eyes, then murmurs, “You didn’t do anything.”

And Dean doesn’t want to have another conversation about this; Sam’s tried to goad him into biting every time they’ve tied in the past three days. Over ten times, enough that Dean has lost count. He'd gotten pissed and agitated enough by all Sam’s baiting that he eventually _had_ bitten down on the meaty part of Sam’s shoulder, and Sam had howled and cursed and clenched around Dean’s knot so hard Dean had seen stars. 

And as Sam turns in the bed toward him, squinting through the dark at Dean’s face, the blankets slip down to Sam’s waist. The bite on his shoulder is scabbed over, and Dean hates himself just looking at it.

“You didn’t do anything,” Sam repeats, propping himself up on his elbow. “I spent that first heat with you…”

“I did _not_ touch you when you were a kid—I would never have…” Dean interrupts.

“I know you didn’t!” Sam interrupts in turn, frustrated. “But I spent that entire first heat with my nose in your neck. That’s how I got through it. Meanwhile, you were my one point of security as a kid—you’ve always been that. We should've been separated back then, during my heat, but…”

“You can’t blame Dad for this,” Dean says. “This is on me.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault,” Sam says. “There wasn’t a lotta research on the subject back then. I mean, it was considered normal to let young omegas stay with alpha family members during their heats. Just for comfort, you know? Not—not anything sexual…”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. Because it _was_ normal back then. It’s what John had ordered Dean to do when he’d called and told John what was happening— _let Sam have the bathroom for privacy, but otherwise don’t leave his side; he’ll be scared and he’ll need you there._

“But now it’s…” Sam trails off and swallows. “Studies have found that if there’s a certain kinda relationship there already, spending that time together can result in—incestuous bonds.”

Dean’s heart is beating wildly, but he says with false humor, “Oh, Sammy, only you would start with the nerdy science bullshit over this.”

“What, it’s true!” Sam says with a scoff.

“And that makes it better?” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “It’s ok since there’s an explanation?”

“Yes!” Sam squawks, unbelievably. “It’s just biology, psychology. Fucked up, yeah, but _normal_ fucked up. It’s not end-of-the-world fucked up. It’s not demon blood, or the Mark of Cain, or Hell. It just… is.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue but can’t find a suitable argument. When it comes to losing Sam again to the Cage, or to demon blood, or to Dean _himself,_ or rather that thing that Dean became... Losing Sam to _anything_ really, well, Dean will literally take anything and everything over that, incestuous bond included.

“Anyway,” Sam says, his tone so quiet and gentle Dean’s caught off guard. When Dean meets his gaze—and when did Dean look away, anyway?—he finds the softest expression on Sam’s face. It’s so full of affection and love it’s almost difficult to look at, and then Sam says, “Don’t we deserve to be happy? After everything that’s happened, after everything we’ve been through? Don’t we deserve just this one thing?”

Dean sighs and looks away from Sam’s impossible stare.

“You always said you wanted that for me. Wanted me to grow old and fat and happy,” Sam says, and Dean hates him for that one moment, hates him for turning his own words back on him. “You have to know I want that for you, too.”

“But this isn’t…” Dean starts.

“If you’re about to say this isn’t what I want, or this isn’t what’s going to make me happy, I’m gonna punch you,” Sam says. He smells so good. “You know,” Sam continues. “You _know_. You’re smart, Dean. You’re amazingly smart. We’re bonded—you know that—you just haven’t put a claim on what’s already yours.”

“Sammy…” Dean murmurs.

“Don’t we deserve this? To just have the complete bond?” Sam asks. Then, with a chuckle, “We already live like a bonded couple, minus the sleeping and sex. Wouldn’t be nice to sleep in the same room? And have boring missionary sex twice a week?”

And well, it’s hard to argue with any of that. He feels guilty for thinking it, for thinking that it’d be nice to share his brother’s nest every night, to know he’s going to get sex regularly, but God, it sounds nice. He finds himself echoing Sam’s laughter, though he sounds slightly hysterical. “Only twice a week?” he asks, deflecting with humor, but Sam grins at him so it must be okay.

“Don’t act like your sex drive’s the same as it was twenty years ago,” Sam says. “You’re just lying to yourself.”

“Eh, shut up,” Dean tells him, and Sam just keeps grinning at him, eyes bright even in the dark of the room. He already knows he’s got Dean right where he wants him, namely wrapped around his little finger, and Dean just sighs.

Do they deserve to be happy? Dean’s not so sure about himself, but he can say with certainty that Sam deserves the whole fucking world, the moon and the stars too. And if this is what he wants, then…

“This is what you want? That’s what you want? You’re sure?” Dean presses.

Sam doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he scoots closer in the bed, close enough that Dean’s forced to lay a hand on Sam’s hip lest it be crushed between their bodies, and then Sam pushes his face to Dean’s throat, running his nose and lips up along intimate skin. Dean’s hand moves to the back of Sam’s head, fingers threading through his hair, and he ducks his head so Sam’s forced to nuzzle along his jawline and cheek.

Sam gives him one of those deep omega purrs, and so Dean tells him, “Turn over.”

Sam does without question or complaint, rolling over then scooting until his big broad back is pressed to Dean’s chest. He’s nude save for his boxer-briefs and the hygienic liner inside; Dean can feel the liner’s stiffness underneath soft cotton, Sam’s ass pushed back in the cradle of Dean’s hips. Dean doesn’t know why he’s even bothering with that anymore—he’s not leaking enough to make a mess outside of sex—but Dean’s not going to say anything. Not yet at least.

He plays with the band of Sam’s underwear for a moment, snaps it against Sam’s hipbone just to be contrary and grins against the back of Sam’s neck when Sam starts squirming. “Settle down,” he murmurs, pulling Sam’s underwear down and helping him kick it off. He waits, then, waits for Sam to roll to his front and present, but Sam just shoves the covers away then lifts up his leg, hand hooked under his knee, giving Dean easier access. Dean swallows, throat clicking, then asks, “Sammy?”

“Come on,” Sam says, voice shaky as he peers back over his shoulder. “Don’t back out now.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Dean answers, then digs his arm between the mattress and Sam’s waist, dragging him impossibly closer. He takes his half-mast erection in his other hand and gives himself a few jerks, getting himself hard enough to push inside. 

Sam lets out one of _those_ sighs when Dean lines himself up and thrusts in, this noise of mixed delight and relief that Dean’s coming to love, and he almost stretches up further into Sam’s face and bites him right then. But not yet, not yet…

He starts up an easy rhythm, rolling his hips and rocking Sam along with him. He grabs Sam’s lifted leg after a few moments, holding it for him; it feels natural, is something he’s done with women he fucked in this same position. He cradled them close just like this: one arm around their waist keeping them spooned together, the other looped under their thigh holding them open.

Sam relaxes against him, leaning back into his chest, and while Dean’s face is pushed to the back of Sam’s neck, his eyes closed, he can still tell when Sam drops his hand between his legs—can feel Sam’s muscles clenching up, can hear his gasp of pleasure and the wet sound of his hand moving over his dick. “Yeah,” Dean mumbles, nuzzling the back of Sam’s neck and inhaling his soft heat-scent—fading now but still there, still so enticing. 

Sam grunts, abdominals tightening, hole fluttering. And God, he’s so hot and wet, broken open so perfect on Dean’s cock.

“So good for me,” Dean murmurs, swallowing back the urge to set his teeth to Sam’s skin—except he doesn’t have to anymore, _he doesn’t have to_. So he sets his mouth to Sam’s scent gland, the one just behind his jaw, the _right_ one, and he kisses and sucks and worships it.

Sam moans and whines and whimpers, and his body goes taunt and his toes curl and his hole clenches around Dean’s forming knot. Dean's eyes are closed so he doesn’t see Sam come, but he can feel it, smell it, feel the rhythmic spasms around his knot and smell the sharp scent of his semen. 

He grinds in one last time, fully pops his knot, and sinks his teeth into Sam’s throat as he comes.

It’s an immediate thing—the world just sliding that half-inch into focus, a puzzle piece finding its way into place—but Dean’s so lost to his pleasure at first that it doesn’t quite register. It isn’t until that initial euphoria is beginning to recede that the details begin to surface: the earthy copper tang in his mouth, the uneven feel of broken skin under his tongue, and the squeeze of Sam’s shaky fingers clutching his hip. 

He can _feel_ Sam, can feel all of him—can feel his exhaustion, his aches and pains. Sam's stomach is still cramping, the pain centered low inside his pelvis, but there is also relief from being stuffed full with Dean’s knot, satisfaction lingering from his orgasm. He’s a little hungry, very thirsty, and…

And the incredible maelstrom of Sam’s emotions: fear and worry and doubt and guilt, but overriding all of that is such an immense joy that Dean feels bowled over by it. 

Not to mention the love—the love that swells and bursts with each beat of Sam’s heart, with each breath he takes.

There is both pain and pleasure from the bite on his neck, so Dean back off, stops digging his teeth in and just licks the mark, soft and soothing. Sam sighs, squeezes Dean’s hip, and murmurs, “Dean…”

It’s like a prayer. Dean suddenly realizes he’s crying, and he closes his eyes, bizarrely embarrassed. It’s not as though Sam can see his tears right now, and Sam’s seen him cry before, regardless.

But then Sam lets out this little hiccupping noise, almost like a sob. The kid is helplessly overwhelmed, so much so that _Dean_ is overwhelmed by it. And Sam’s not a crier, not outside occasions of death or extreme physical pain—those moments of pain when the body seems to demand tears for compensation—Dean’s been there, Dean knows. 

But Sam’s choking on sobs now, so Dean hugs him tight and tells him, “S’okay, Sammy. I gotcha. I gotcha, Sammy. S’okay.” And if his voice comes out a little unsteady, well, he’s doing the best he can with what he’s got.

“I know you do. I know,” Sam says with a hysterical little laugh. Then, “You gotta calm down, Dean. I think we’re on some sorta feedback loop.”

“I am calm!” Dean protests, but Sam just fucking laughs, jostling himself around on Dean’s knot. Dean groans, his balls giving a valiant attempt at pumping Sam full of even more cum, and on top of his own spike of pleasure, he gets Sam’s warm rush of bliss and satisfaction. “Jesus,” he grates out, while Sam moans at him.

“Yeah,” Sam says, breathy and uneven. “See? Feedback loop. We gotta— _fuck_ —we gotta calm down.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself both physically and mentally, and then just sets his lips back to the mark on Sam’s neck.

“ _God…_ ” Sam murmurs, baring his throat all sweet and submissive. And he’d never do that for anyone else, Dean knows. Never in a million years, never in a million lifetimes. 

_Such a good bitch,_ my _bitch_ , Dean’s heart and mind supplies, and something within Sam blooms with both amusement and gratification. 

“We shoulda done this years ago,” Sam says, so quiet. “Imagine the shit we could have avoided if we’d just known, if I hadn’t had to guess what you were dealing with, what you were struggling with…”

“If I’d known when you were lying to me,” Dean says without thinking, and then feels Sam’s whole being just fucking collapse. He seals his lips to the broken skin on Sam’s throat at that, sucks and licks and kisses, begs silently for forgiveness because he hadn’t meant it. Not like that, not really; it’s just breaking him to think of everything that could have been different.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Dean says, pulling away and licking the blood from his lips. “And I forgave you ages ago. You know that, right? You gotta know that.”

Sam nods, twisting to glance back over his shoulder. Dean can only see the sharp cut of his cheek, the strong line of his jaw, and one teary eye; Dean loves him so damn much. 

“I’ll get you something to drink soon as I can,” Dean tells him. It’s what he usually says after, except now he can feel how thirsty Sam is, dry from the lingering fever and sweat. He can also feel Sam’s fatigue, both how bone-tired and sleepy he is, so Dean murmurs, “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up—grape Gatorade, right?”

Sam huffs, affection rolling off him, and says, “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Dean says, holding Sam close and grunting when Sam pushes his ass back against him.

He falls asleep waiting for his knot to go down, then wakes up later when Sam returns to bed with the aforementioned Gatorade and a pack of crackers. Dean frowns—he hadn't meant to leave Sam on his own, leave him to care for himself—but realizes that Sam isn’t upset. No, Sam is so content, _at peace_. He smiles at Dean as he climbs back into the bed, then leans down to nose along Dean’s cheek, asking without asking.

Dean tilts his head to meet Sam’s lips and kisses his brother for the first time. Sam tastes like grape-flavoring and soft omega and just plain _Sam_ , and Sam smiles against his lips when they break apart.

“I’m not gonna call you Alpha,” Sam tells him when they break apart.

“I’m still gonna call you Bitch,” Dean tells him.

Sam just laughs in reply.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part, though I feel like there's an epilogue or post-work waiting to be written. I may do something, we'll see. Thank you guys for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, etc. Stay safe and well out there! <3

Dean doesn’t know what he expects that next morning, perhaps to wake up in a different world, to a different reality, everything irrevocably changed. He’s spent his whole life in a society that crowed about the magic of the mating bond; he's heard all the stories, the ardor of fairytales as well as the pain of reality.

Hell, he’d watched John drown himself in drink after losing Mom, watched him be consumed by revenge. And Dad had sacrificed his soul for Dean, for one of the pups that came from that bond.

But then again, Dean had thrown himself into Hell for Sam—and he’d do it again, he’d do it again in a heartbeat—because Sam was right. The bond had been there all along, for decades, settled just under the surface.

So in reality, not much is different. He’s alone in bed, but Dean knows his brother, knows his routine and predilections. Sam’s always an early riser even after late nights, and so Dean expects him to be up, expects him to either be exercising, or in the shower, or having his morning coffee.

Except now Dean can _feel_ him. He’s nearby and still a bit achy; the muscles in his lower back are tight, his abdominals are crampy, and his hole is sore and used. But more importantly, he’s warm and relaxed. _Content_.

Dean goes off in search, finds Sam in the kitchen with hot coffee and a half-eaten egg sandwich in front of him. That sweet-edged heat-scent is gone, leaving him smelling like usual, like comfort and home, little brother and mate all at once. 

He looks over at Dean with a weary little smile and says, “Hey.”

“Morning, Sunshine,” Dean quips, meaning it as a joke, but he falters. There’s a little bit of blood smeared down the side of Sam’s neck. Dean can’t see the actual claiming mark what with the way Sam’s shower-damp hair is falling around his face, but the blood is there dried on his skin, larger than life. 

The fresh bite wound must have broken open and bled while Sam was washing, or maybe while he was drying off. He wonders if there’s blood on Sam’s grey towel, if Sam hung it up to dry and use again, or if he went ahead and threw it in the hamper.

Dean doesn’t remember walking across the kitchen or reaching out, but suddenly his fingers are against Sam’s neck, pushing Sam’s hair aside to see the claiming mark. Sam turns his head toward him, meeting his eyes, and Dean presses down on the mark until Sam bares his throat. 

Sam holds his chin up, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, but says, “M’not gonna go around here showing my throat every time you look at me.”

“Not expecting you to,” Dean says, letting his thumb drift gently over the broken skin. “Just wanted to see.”

A shiver goes up Sam’s spine, and he drops his chin, meets Dean’s eyes head on. Dean takes his hand away, and Sam’s hair falls back, hiding the mark. Dean can’t decide whether he likes that or not, that Sam’s hair covers the mark. Some primal part of him wants to show off his claim loud and obvious on his omega—God, _his_ omega—but Sam is blood, so that fact that it’s mostly hidden is actually good. Will hopefully keep awkward questions to a minimum.

There is also a small part of Dean that wants it covered, kept as an intimate secret between just the two of them. The details are no one else’s business, are beyond others’ understanding, like so much else about them. 

And Dean wants to say so many things. _You are my whole world, Sammy._ And _I never realized you felt this way, that it was this deep for you too._ And _I hope you don’t come to regret what we’ve done._

But words have never been his strong suit, and that hasn’t changed overnight. So he pats Sam on the back and asks, “You doing okay?”

Sam nods, reaching for his coffee again. “Yeah,” Sam says, a small smile curling on his lips. “Really good.”

Dean nods, echoes, “Good. That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. Then, “I gotta run out to the pharmacy in a few, then I dunno, just give me a couple days? Then we can start looking for a case, try to get back to normal.”

And maybe Dean should protest the ‘get back to normal’ statement—there’s no going back from where they are now, at least not for him. But he gets hung up on, “You’re going out to the pharmacy? _Now_?”

Sam blinks at him. “Yeah,” he says. “Dean, I have to get an after-heat pill. I realize it’s probably not an issue, considering I’m—." He pauses to laugh, and Dean gets a spark of embarrassment from him. “Considering I’m apparently going through _the change_ , but we can’t risk it.”

“Okay,” Dean says, nodding, because yeah. Yeah, Sam’s right. “I’ll go with you.”

“I can handle it myself,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“And I can go with you,” Dean says, frowning.

A flare of frustration from Sam, then resignation. “You’re not going to follow me around peacocking,” he says.

“I don’t act like that,” Dean protests. 

Sam just looks at him, then says, “Eat and have your coffee so you can go get ready. I wanna leave and get this over with soon as I can.”

Dean nods and does as Sam asks, realizing after a few minutes that he’s feeling good, _proud_ for being such a kind alpha and doing what his omega needs. Which is just stupid, because he’s always taken care of Sam, always tried to do right by Sam, always tried to do what Sam needed—and it’s something that’s always given him a sense of purpose, something that’s always made him happy.

Why his chest is suddenly flooded with emotion over it, just because he’s going with Sam to get a pill, is beyond Dean. But then he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, sees Sam pressing and rubbing at his sternum, sees Sam’s eyes closed; Dean realizes with a shock that not everything he’s feeling is his own. 

He swallows as he grabs the eggs out of the fridge, then says, “This is gonna take some getting used to.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

Sam laughs a little hysterically, opening his eyes on Dean with a ridiculously soft expression. “Yeah, I didn’t…” he pauses, taking a breath, continues, “…didn’t realize it was gonna be like this.”

Dean nods and asks before he has a chance to think about it, “Do you regret it?”

“Do you?” Sam counters.

And usually Dean hates we he does that, turns the question back around without answering just trying to trip Dean up. Because he’s fucking smarter than Dean, and he knows it, at least that’s what Dean always thought. Except Dean suddenly feels his uncertainty, his spark of fear, his guilt; it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he hasn’t answered because he’s afraid of what Dean thinks.

But Sam must be getting something back from Dean’s side of the bond—the kid’s fear and uncertainty fade, and he lets out that little laugh he’s had since he was a child. A soft chuckle and a dip of his head, eyes on the floor. “No, I don’t regret it,” Sam says.

Dean turns to the stove when he answers, because he’s not sure he can handle Sam’s gentle grin and the rush of happiness he’s getting all at once. “Me neither, Sammy,” Dean says, quiet. “Me neither.”

~*~

The day passes is relative normalcy—and Dean still doesn’t know what he expected, doesn’t know how exactly he expected everything to change—but for a day spent in Lebanon, it’s pretty predictable.

They go to the same pharmacy they always use, a little mom-and-pop place less than a 10-minute drive from the bunker. It’s usually half-empty, which affords Sam a semblance of privacy as he speaks with the pharmacist about his options, and that’s the only difference in their little excursion. Now, instead of ringing up oversized bottles of ibuprofen and copious bandaging supplies with obvious concern, the middle-aged omega pharmacist is being patient and understanding while Sam explains the situation, or at least the situation on the surface—while Sam quietly tells her he’d had an unexpected heat and needs an after-heat pill.

Dean hovers nearby, pretending to look at the allergy meds while he listens in on their conversation. The pharmacist pulls down a couple of pill packets from behind the counter, starts explaining cost verses effectiveness and common side effects. Sam listens intently, taking it all in with that wide-eyed look that makes him seem twenty years younger than he actually is. Dean’s chest aches with a familiar mix of alpha and big-brother protectiveness, not at all changed.

He wonders after they leave, after Sam’s popped the pill on the way home, if Sam’s ever had to do this before. Judging by his nervousness and embarrassment while speaking to the pharmacist, Dean’s thinking not.

Sam takes a quick nap once they get home, disappearing into his nest, no _room_ , and leaving Dean on his own. Dean takes the time to clean up a bit; the sheets on his own bed are soiled with sweat and slick and semen, so he strips them off and throws them in the washer, then makes up his bed with a spare set. The kitchen’s also in a state—Dean hasn’t really taken the time to do dishes or wipe up the normal day-to-day messes what with their _situation_ —so he goes through and takes care of things. It’s routine and calming, and he finds himself sinking into the normalcy of it, humming Metallica under his breath.

He’s not really aware of the bond while Sam’s asleep; sometimes there’s a little flare of indistinct feeling, and Dean wonders over that. Sam dreaming, maybe? Or perhaps normal sensations during sleep—his body pressed against the mattress, the tiny muscle twitches in deep sleep, the heavy feel of a nighttime erection.

The thought of that last one makes his stomach swoop.

Dean goes out eventually, leaving a note for Sam—‘ _Going to get pizza, be back soon, call my cell if you need me’_ —and when he returns, he finds Sam in the kitchen looking soft and sleep-disheveled. His fingers are on the note, angling it so as to read it, but he looks up when Dean steps inside and smiles. Dean can feel the rush of happiness and affection from him like it’s Dean’s own, and God, maybe it is.

Maybe it’s _theirs_.

Dean clears his throat, trying to keep it together, and announces, “Dinner!”

“Mmm, smells good,” Sam says, still smiling.

“You wanna, uhm, take it down to the den? Watch some TV while we eat?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll grab some beers.”

And so they settle in, everything comfortable and quiet, sitcoms reruns with their predictable laugh tracks playing in the background. Sam only eats half of his pizza, a clear sign he’s still not feeling that great, but he has a couple beers and smiles at the television with half-lidded eyes. He’s dozing, slumped over in his Laz-e-Boy by 10 o’clock.

Dean gives him an hour before grabbing up their empties and nudging him awake. Sam rubs sleepy eyes, grinning up at Dean, so Dean gripes, “You already slept the day away, lazy bitch.”

Sam grunts, then stands and stretches. “I know,” he replies. “Still tired, though. Hopefully I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, before leaving Sam to his own devices. It’s still early, or at least early to Dean, but he assumes Sam will get ready for bed and lie down. Dean figures he might as well settle in himself—he can just listen to some music and play games on his phone for a while until he’s ready to go to sleep.

He’s still propped up in his bed, headphones in and phone in hand, when his door cracks open. Dean sees it out of his peripheral, and he looks up to see Sam squinting at him through the doorway, hair a mess of bedhead, a pillow clutched to his chest. Dean pulls his headphones off, just as Sam asks, “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, concern gripping him immediately. “What’s wrong? Everything alright?”

“I—I just thought…” Sam stammers, sounding heartbreakingly unsure, and Dean hates it. He can smell distress on the omega, can feel a mix of complex emotions flooding off of him, worry and fear and sadness and uncertainty. _Jesus_ …

“What’s wrong?” Dean repeats. “Sammy?”

“I was almost asleep…” Sam says, trailing off, and he sounds so young. Then, “Let me stay in here with you for just a little while, maybe just until—." 

“Stop,” Dean says, cutting Sam off as he realizes what’s wrong. God, he’s so stupid. “Sam, I… Dad always told me you didn’t sleep in an omega’s nest, not unless they ask you to.”

Sam sighs, but his scent starts to mellow almost immediately. “Dean, that’s—that’s more when you’re having casual sex, not—I mean, no one wants some strange alpha hanging around, but…”

“But I’m not a strange alpha,” Dean finishes before Sam has a chance to, already scooting over in the bed to make some room. He pats the mattress, then says, “C’mere.”

Sam shuffles inside, shutting the door behind him. He drops his pillow down on the bed, and Dean gets a hit of that sweet heat-scent again, soaked into the pillow. Sam himself, though, is starting to take on a sour edge, the unreceptive drop in his cycle—means their couplings didn’t take, or at least that the after-heat pill is doing its job.

Dean’s been alive long enough to easily recognize the scent of a pregnant omega, could pick one out of a crowd, even one that had just been bred a few days ago. Sam’s not pregnant, and that’s good, _so good_. Yet his dumb lizard brain has him frowning, reaching over to lay his hand overtop of Sam’s stomach as Sam settles onto the bed beside him. Sam’s t-shirt is soft, and Dean bunches it under his fingers, playing with the fabric.

Sam takes a deep breath, then lets it out long and slow. “I know,” he says eventually, head turned on the pillow to look at Dean. 

Dean’s not sure what he knows, but he nods all the same.

“I hated being this way,” Sam says eventually. “Hell, I still do. There are all these things that people say we’re supposed to want, and how we're supposed to act, and I’ve just never fit that profile. But I have the same dumb urges sometimes, you know?”

“What do you want?” Dean asks, the question flowing out of him easy. If his omega wants something, if he is feeling a need that Dean can fulfill, then Dean needs to know.

But then Sam answers, blunt as hell, “A bellyful of pups.”

“Sam…” Dean says, his breath coming out of him in a rush.

“I know,” Sam says, shaking his head. “And that’s why I hate this. Because even though I know, _I know_ —deep down, I’m really just some dumb animal.”

“Is that why you asked me to bite?” Dean asks. He’s only being half-rhetorical. “Is that the only reason? Because Sammy, my little brother is not a ‘dumb animal’.”

Sam huffs at him, though it’s affectionate. “No, I—no,” he says. Then, “I’ve been tired for a long time, Dean—tired of waiting and wanting—and I guess I was just dumb enough to do something about it.”

Dean frowns, honing in on the word ‘dumb’, but Sam must see him or feel him, because he shakes his head.

“No, that’s not quite right,” he amends, then chuckles sheepishly. “Let’s says—I was high enough on endorphins to ask for what I really wanted.”

“And this is what you really want?” Dean clarifies one last time, reaching over to stroke his thumb across the mark on Sam’s neck.

There’s a brief stretch of silence before Sam finally answers, voice soft. “What time we have left, I want us to spend it together. Like this,” he says. “That’s all I want.”

Dean nods; he can accept that. Sam snuggles down under the covers, settled on his back with his hands crossed over his stomach, then lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. Dean snorts, and Sam kicks at him in retaliation. 

“What about you?” Sam asks eventually. Then, when Dean only frowns at him, “I mean, what do _you_ want?”

Dean barely has to think about it for a second. “You,” he answers. “With me.”

There’s a rush of satisfaction from Sam, then, “What about that light at the end of the tunnel?”

Dean takes a deep breath, then lets it out slow. “Do we really gotta do the whole heart-to-heart thing already? I mean, I was just lying here playing Candy Crush, minding my own damn business…”

Sam chuckles and blessedly lets it go. Dean huffs another deep breath. It’s not like he thinks they can just _not talk_ about this, but for fucksake, it’s barely been a full twenty-four hours since he left that claiming bite in the first place. They’ve just spent several days here having something akin to marathon sex, and neither of them are exactly spring chickens. Dean just needs a fucking break, just for a little while, just to think.

“M’gonna stay up for a while,” Dean tells him, once Sam seems to have settled in. He’s lying still, eyes closed, a boney knee pressed into Dean’s thigh; just a comfortable, warm presence next to Dean. 

Sam breaths out, wiggling into the mattress, and murmurs, “Yeah, okay. Just stay here.”

“It’s _my_ bed, bitch,” Dean replies.

“I know, jerk,” Sam says, digging his knee into Dean’s thigh. Dean huffs and squirms and kicks at him once again, but then once they’ve settled, once Dean has pulled his headphones back on and gone back to his phone… “Just stay.”

Dean barely hears him, isn’t even sure he was meant to hear him, but nevertheless Dean says, “M’right here.”

Sam doesn’t move or answer, but Dean gets the rush of warm contentment regardless.

~*~

It takes Sam a few days to fully recover—longer than it had last time; he’d bounced back within twenty-four hours then, though Dean supposes that was quite a while ago. Seven or eight years ago, in fact. It comes back around to them not being spring chickens anymore, and they wander around the bunker just being lazy for once in their miserable lives, watching Netflix and napping. 

Sam spends time reading, and not for research, not in a desperate search for solutions, not to save someone’s life. No, Dean sits next to him and they split the good brandy while Sam goes through an entire book, some current bestseller, just for fun.

Dean can smell the blood on him the very next day—not a sickening scent that twists Dean’s gut, not the copper scent of blood pouring from an open wound, but rather the heavy earthy scent of menstrual blood. It makes Dean protective, makes him shove OJ and Gatorade under Sam’s nose every hour on the hour, makes him fix up a roast for dinner one night then hamburgers the next and meaty spaghetti the next. 

Sam knows what Dean’s doing, Dean can tell, but he suffers through it with a tired sort of resignation. 

They continue to sleep in the same bed. Sam doesn’t make Dean give up his memory foam, instead brings his pillow and blanket into Dean’s room and makes his nest there. Dean watches this happen, watches Sam nest down like any other omega—less pillows and blankets, but spreading his scent all over Dean’s room all the same. Dean doesn’t say anything, though, just enjoys the way his room is beginning to smell like cinnamon.

But then Sam finds them a hunt, what looks like a plain salt and burn in northern Oklahoma. It’s not too far away, maybe a half day’s drive at most, and Dean relents just because it was Sam who found it and Sam who is pushing to go. Pushing for some amount of normalcy, and Dean can understand that, even if he does try to argue that they wait a little longer, just a few more days…

Sam starts with his shit, though, his bitch-attitude and curled up nose, and they end up in the Impala and on the road sooner rather than later.

They haven’t had sex again yet, not since that last knotting when Dean had bit down, not since Sam’s finished his heat. Of course, Sam’s been radiating unreceptiveness, the sort of scent that practically wards off sexual advances. Not that Dean’s completely comfortable with the thought of rolling over in bed and nosing up Sam’s neck, letting his hands roam and pressing his dick against Sam’s ass—because it’s not just asking for sex from his omega, it’s asking for sex from his _little brother…_

At least, he feels that way until they get down to Oklahoma—‘King or two queens?’ the woman at reception asks, and for the first time in his life, Dean clears his throat and answers, ‘A king, ma’am.’ And each night when he and Sam settle into bed together, Sam’s scent becomes less sour, more warm and welcoming, like cinnamon apples and ginger beer.

As with most things in their lives, the salt and burn isn’t quite as straightforward as they’d been hoping. They take care of the angry spirit’s body, then end up chasing down old Mrs. Simpson’s personal effects until, by sheer dumb luck, they stumble upon the locket she’s attached to. Some sort of family heirloom. Dean doesn’t even question it at that point, just flicks his lighter and burns the damn thing while Sam dodges the breakables being violently flung from inside the kitchen.

It takes a week longer than they were expecting, and on that last night in the motel room, after showers and dinner, once they're curled close together under the sheets—it takes everything within Dean’s power not to just jump his brother right there. It’s only exhaustion that helps him keep it together, both his own and his brother’s. Sam’s asleep behind him within minutes.

However, Dean rolls over in the dark of night to the sweet yet earthy smell of omega arousal. He’s in that drowsy state of half-wakefulness, and all he knows is that it’s his mate next to him scenting so sweet, his mate who’s aroused, and he presses closer, lays a hand on the small of Sam’s back and pushes his face into the crook of Sam’s neck. It’s his job as Sam’s alpha to care for him, to satisfy him in every way, and so if Sam is turned on then that means…

It’s as he’s sliding his hand down underneath the sheets to grab at Sam’s tight ass that the entirety of the situation registers. Namely that Sam’s very much asleep, deep under, and he’s rolling his hips slowly against the mattress, panting quiet. His warm breath ghosts over Dean’s face, and then he moans, and Dean wants him so bad. Dean wants to pull the sheets down and crawl on top of him, hold him down under his body and knot him up good.

But this is Sam. They haven’t had sex outside of frenzied mating during heats. Dean’s not even sure if Sam _wants_ to be knotted—not that Dean doesn’t want to just kiss him and touch him, not that Dean wouldn’t happily settle between his thighs and lick his tight, wet little hole. He’d even swallow down that big cock if Sam wanted him to. He doesn’t care; he’ll take care of his omega, whatever his omega wants and needs. 

Sam’s just having a wet dream, though, isn’t even aware he’s asking for anything from Dean. So Dean stays still, his face against Sam’s throat and his hand on Sam’s ass, just feeling Sam huff against his skin and Sam’s hips swivel and grind. He’s determined not to wake Sam, to just let Sam ride this out. Even when Sam tilts his head toward Dean and starts subconsciously scenting him, Dean doesn’t move; Dean just takes care of him by letting him do whatever he needs.

But then Sam’s slow, rolling rhythm falters, and he murmurs, “Dean?”

Dean takes a deep breath and replies, “Yeah, Sammy?”

Sam turns toward him, sleepy and uncoordinated but obviously awake, and then presses his nose against Dean’s shoulder. He inhales deep then exhales in little snuffly huffs, and Dean loves him, _God_ , Dean loves him.

“You having a good dream?” Dean asks, and Sam laughs, soft. Dean can feel his erection against his hip when he wiggles closer; Dean’s already at half-mast himself just from the scent in the room.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, throwing one long leg over Dean’s side. It pulls Dean further in as he crooks it behind Dean’s ass, and so Dean lets himself roll into Sam, lets his weight push Sam onto his back and lets his body settle between Sam’s legs. He keeps himself supported on his elbows and looks down at Sam’s face—it’s dark in room, hard to see anything really, but Dean’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the sharp lines of Sam’s face, his shoulders and chest moving as he breathes, and the way his hair is fanned out on the pillow. He’s gorgeous, the sexiest thing Dean’s ever seen…

Dean leans down and seals their lips together, too caught up in the moment and the scent and the ache in his chest to really think about it. Sam surges up to meet him, big hands reaching up to cup Dean’s face; their noses bump and their teeth clash before they part for a breath then meet again. That time is better, smoother and easier, soft lips and wet tongues and warm mouths. It’s only the second time they’ve ever kissed, and he can’t help but moan into Sam’s mouth. His mate’s lips taste so sweet.

“You can fuck me,” Sam breaks away to say. Dean feels him spread his legs wider, feels him tilt his hips up into Dean’s. Dean groans, and Sam adds, “You can knot me up, if you want.”

“Is that what you want?” Dean asks.

“I’d…” Sam starts, pausing to choose his words. “I’d be happy for you to.”

It’s a non-answer, really, so Dean slinks down Sam’s body, kissing and nuzzling along his throat and pushing at his t-shirt to lick at his collarbone. He tastes salty sweet, like clean omega sweat, and so Dean scoots down further, kicking the covers off the bed and lying down between Sam’s legs. Sam props himself up on his elbows, watching as Dean pushes up the hem of his shirt and presses his face to his stomach. His abs go tight under Dean’s lips, so Dean kisses and licks at the soft skin before asking, “Sam, what do you want?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just purrs all soft and sweet when Dean strokes his hands down his thighs. So Dean tries again…

“If I was a girl, what would do?”

Sam chuckles, then says, “If you were a girl, I’d fuck you.”

Dean swallows, answers, “Maybe next time, Sammy.” 

Sam barks a startled laugh, seeming honestly surprised—and who knew Dean could still surprise him?

“How about I eat you out?” Dean asks. “You smell so good, I wanna lick you open, yeah?”

Sam sucks in a breath, nodding quickly, and his legs splay open even wider. Dean’s insides go warm; he’s found something Sam likes, and something _he_ likes too. So he hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sam’s boxer-briefs, and there’s some fumbling and awkwardness as Sam maneuvers his long legs around, trying to kick his underwear off without kicking Dean. He’s mostly successful—he only knees Dean in the side once—and then he’s stretched out on his back again, t-shirt still on but lower half completely bare.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, before dipping his head and licking experimentally along the fat length of Sam’s dick. Sam gasps, hips canting up to meet Dean’s lips, and Dean can’t help but smile. He’s never put his mouth on a penis before, never been with another man besides Sam, but Sam smells cinnamon musky here just like everywhere else, and his cock tastes like clean skin and omega and Sam.

“ _Fuck_ …” Sam curses, both his hands dropping down to grab himself behind the knees then pull his legs up. And there he is spread all the way open, his tight little hole glistening around the rim and his balls drawn up already. 

Dean breathes him in, so sweet here between his asscheeks, before pressing a wet openmouthed kiss to the pale underside of one thigh. Then he kisses higher and higher and inward, until his mouth is over his asshole. He sucks on that little furl then swirls his tongue round and round, letting his spit and Sam’s natural slick mix together. And God, Dean had always wondered if Sam’s taste was just because of the heat, had deep down almost assumed it, because there was just no way, no way an omega could taste that good every day and every night of the week.

But apparently, Sam is the exception to that rule as well.

Dean moans long and low, then goes to pressing his tongue against Sam’s hole in strong rhythmic pulses, encouraging Sam’s body to give him more of that rich bittersweet taste. Sam’s grunts, one hand dropping and letting go of a leg—it splays out to the side, boneless. He cups his balls and starts massaging, and so Dean licks up over Sam’s taint, kissing and sucking as he goes, before he’s nosing against Sam’s hand. Sam moves to wrap his hand around his cock after a moment, allowing Dean to lick over the soft loose skin of his sack. Dean sucks it into his mouth, gentle and careful, and Sam breathlessly curses, his thighs tensing up Dean’s peripheral.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs. “Dean, I’m already really close.”

“Mmm,” Dean encourages, moving back to Sam’s wet little hole. He’s leaked slick just in the half-minute Dean’s been laving attention on his balls, and it’s dripping down the crack of his ass, making a little wet spot on the bed. Dean’s cock jerks in his boxers, knot already starting to swell even though he hasn’t touched himself, and he dips his head to lick up everything Sam’s giving him. Dean can’t help but press his thumb to Sam’s hole, and it slips in so easy, Sam’s body just welcoming him in. Sam keens and purrs for him, pure omega noises, and Dean knows he’s vocalizing in turn, grunting and growling, tongue working at Sam where he’s broken open.

“Dean— _Dean_ …” Sam gasps, and Dean knows already, knows from way Sam is tensing up and the way he’s breathing. “Dean, I’m gonna come, I’m…”

He gushes a little bit of slick when he comes—something Dean’s never had a chance to see, to know, always knotting Sam during this moment and keeping everything inside. It’s something exquisite, though, his hole spasming around Dean’s thumb and slick leaking out around it onto Dean’s tongue. Dean licks it all up greedily, Sam moaning and purring and panting all the while, until Sam’s finally still and quiet, only his heavy breathing audible in the room.

“I meant it,” Sam says eventually, breaking the silence. “You can fuck me, knot me up. I meant it.”

He sounds breathless, spacey, and Dean raises up to looks at him. He’s still spread out like before but looks loose, relaxed, satisfied. And Dean can feel it, can sense how wonderful his mate feels, but still he asks, “Did I do good?”

Sam laughs at him and answers, “You already know you did.” Then, quieter, “You always hear those dumb stories about how the sex is better with your mate—mind-blowing amazing, you know? Never really believed it.”

“I change your mind?” Dean asks, all false confidence. 

Sam doesn’t deign to answer him, but he does spread his legs wider and say, “Let me show you, Dean. I’ll change your mind, too.”

“Don’t need my mind changed,” Dean tells him, and Dean doesn’t know whether it’s the words or something Sam’s getting from the bond, but something softens between them. Something softens in _Sam_ —Dean can see it in Sam’s face even though the room is dark. 

“C’mere,” Sam says, reaching for him, and so Dean goes, knee-walking up the bed until he’s astraddle Sam’s waist. Then, once again, “Dean, you’re my alpha. You can fuck me, knot me up good.”

“You were knot-shy,” Dean can’t help but point out. “And that was during your _heat_.”

“Dean, I just don’t have experience taking knots. At least, not really—not, not the way you’re supposed to,” Sam says haltingly. It takes Dean a minute to realize what Sam’s implying, but then his stomach turns and his erection flags. Sam’s never outright admitted to it, but Dean just always assumed he’d suffered _that_ sort of abuse during his time in the Cage—and this is probably as close to an admission as Sam is ever going to give him. 

“And I’ll never ask you to,” Dean tells him, swallowing down his own guilt and pain. “Never ask you to do that.”

“But I like being tied with you,” Sam says, open and honest. He reaches for Dean again, hands settling on Dean’s hips. “It feels good.”

Dean’s cock takes interest again at the sensations he’s getting from Sam, sex and love and trust and intimacy all wrapped up in one—all the things he’s saying without words, that maybe he generally doesn’t want to be knotted but that he _does_ like when his alpha knots him, that he likes lying in the afterglow connected to Dean in the most intimate of ways.

“I wouldn’t deny you that,” Sam adds quietly. 

Dean nods, but he makes the decision. “Later. Another night. Just not right now.”

Sam’s silent for a moment, watching him through the dark, before he agrees. “Okay,” he says, hands wandering first up Dean’s sides under his t-shirt then back down over his hips and down his thighs. Dean sighs, letting his eyes drift shut; Sam’s hands are gentle but callused, and the room smells like sex, like slick and semen and lingering omega arousal. The feelings he’s getting from Sam are overwhelming him, deep satisfaction coupled with intense want. The momentary lapse in Dean’s arousal is turning around quicker than lightning. 

Sam’s hands find the bulge in Dean’s boxers, where his erection is pushing out the fabric and pulling the waistband away from his skin. He squeezes Dean’s shaft through the soft cotton, gentle and easy, before pulling the underwear down to his thighs. When he wraps a hand around Dean’s cock, it’s with a sort of worship Dean’s not expecting, and he strokes Dean’s length slow and steady, a twist at the head and a hug around the base. 

“Shit, you’re already fattening up,” Sam murmurs, hand going still around Dean’s forming knot. Dean’s hip jerks forward, instincts telling him to fuck and breed even though he’s just trying to bury his knot into Sam’s warm grip. Sam seems confused about what to do now, though; he just stares at Dean’s cock as though in awe, hand working over Dean’s cockhead. But Dean’s close, wants to pop his knot, and he needs more.

He reaches down and grabs at himself, squeezing his forming knot tight in one hand and grasping Sam’s forearm with the other. It only takes him a few seconds more; the combination of everything at once—Sam and his smell and his feel, plus the grip Dean has on himself, the pulsing pressure he’s putting on his knot—it gets him there fast.

“Yeah, yeah, come on me,” Sam says, and Dean does. He comes across Sam’s t-shirt in long thick stripes, his thighs shaking underneath him with the force of his pleasure. Sam’s hands find his hips, holding tight to keep him grounded as Dean falls apart, as Dean empties himself and gives it all over to Sam. His eyes are closed and his teeth are bared, but he can still hear Sam’s voice, hear his filthy encouragements.

His thighs give out as he’s coming down, but Sam catches him, helps him fall on his side and rest on his hip. Dean finds himself looking down at Sam then, his hand on Sam’s belly to steady himself; Sam’s t-shirt is covered in cum, sticky under Dean’s hand, and Sam looks absolutely astonished. There’s a little splatter of white on his chin, but otherwise Dean’s managed to keep his face clean.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam murmurs. “I knew alpha’s supposedly came a lot, but Jesus Christ…”

 _That was nothing, that was normal_ , Dean thinks but doesn’t voice it. Instead, he swipes up the semen on Sam’s chin with his thumb, then presses it to Sam’s lips. Sam opens his mouth up and sucks it in, tongue laving across the skin, and Dean comments, “You act like you’ve never been with an alpha before.”

Sam pops off Dean’s thumb before pointing out, “I’ve been with you.”

Affection curls up and settles in Dean’s chest, and he leans down to nuzzle Sam’s throat. “Besides me,” Dean says eventually.

“Besides you,” Sam echoes. He purrs gently, baring his throat for Dean, before admitting, “Not really.”

Dean’s belly goes hot—if he was younger, he thinks he’d be getting hard again—but as it is, he just nips at Sam’s throat and says, “I’m your alpha. You’re my bitch.”

He can practically feel Sam rolling his eyes even though Sam doesn’t comment. Sam just sits up to pull off his soiled t-shirt then lies back down. Dean curls close once Sam’s made himself comfortable, and he’s dozing, is almost asleep when Sam whispers, “I love you.”

Dean’s entire being clenches up in adoration, and he echoes, “Love you too, bitch.”

The bond goes warm with affection and tenderness, and Dean falls asleep smiling.


End file.
